it is winter again as we feel our way through
a bed of glass in the river
we’ve been here before
everything’s the same
still the morning
still the pieces of glass
we pile in the image of a child and praise
in truth we can’t make anything happen between us
winter began inside you
no one knew
but I knew
*
I want to believe this will end
with the child coiled around your finger
with thousands watching and throwing roses at us
with lights and glitter in our hair
but we both know how it ends
we practice until we don’t need to tell our bodies how to do it
the child with her glass head—
her lips curled in my palm trying to say her name for her
will you hold her to the light
will you breathe a little pink into her
your hands on her throat looking for the song at the other end
not everything is a bright flute made of bone
*
we tried shaking her out of us like a bee down our shirts
but what if the bee had been a wasp
what if it died not because it stung
but because it grew tired of stinging
milk eyed small lunged prophet in the mud
you wash the sand out of your hair
where the mushrooms outnumber the stars
we sit on the bank in the sun
and quietly roll clay between our legs
and its hardening is a form of meditation
winter begins with her hands detached from the branches
you knew
you always knew